


If Found, Please Return

by gwevyan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Gen, Protective Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Weechesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwevyan/pseuds/gwevyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: the times Dean Winchester threatened to put a collar on his wayward little brother, the time he did, and the time he didn't need to. (warning: rating will probably go up, but this is not a slash story!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“How fucking far can a toddler get in five seconds? What the hell are _you_ looking at?” Dean shot the last part at a middle-aged woman who had stopped and stared in shock, clearly not used to seeing a seven-year-old boy running alone through a mall and swearing under his breath. The woman’s eyes widened and she backed away. Dean ignored her and ran on.  
  
He’d only turned away for five seconds. _Five goddamn seconds_ , to hand over the cash for the new coats Dad had sent them in to buy seeing as they’d both outgrown their jackets from last year. Dean had shot up half a foot and Sammy, still trundling around with chubby knees and baby fat, was getting bigger every day. Dad had to go to a special store across town, so he gave Dean the money.  
  
“In and out, alright Dean? You know the kind of thing to look for. Hoods, linings and thick fabric.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Dean had nodded seriously, carefully folding the dollar bills and putting them safely in his pocket.  
  
Dad had smiled and ruffled his hair. “I know you can handle it, Dean. And remember-“  
  
“ _Take care of Sam_ ,” Dean finished with him, rolling his eyes. “Dad, I always do!”  
  
He’d bundled Sammy up in warm clothes, tucking his scarf down into his old too-small coat and hitching his gloves up under the elastic of his sleeves.  
  
He’d tied Sammy’s shoelaces securely, despite his brother stamping his little feet excitedly at the news of going outside.  
  
He’d held Sammy’s hand tightly all the way from the parking lot, where Dad dropped them off, to the children’s store inside the mall.  
  
He’d unzipped Sammy’s jacket, draped his scarf loosely over his shoulders, and tucked his gloves into his pockets (before taking his hand again) so that he wouldn’t get overheated inside the warm store.  
  
He’d selected a number of jackets, let Sammy pick out the blue one with the paw-print-fleece lining and zoo animal patches on the chest and hip pockets, and helped him try several sizes on until they found one just big enough for the toddler to grow into without being swamped at first. He’d picked out a green coat with red plaid flannel lining for himself because it reminded him of one of Dad’s.  
  
He’d walked them up to the counter and heaved their new jackets up on top. The suspicious-looking lady rang them up and told him how much. He’d let go of Sammy’s hand, reached into his pocket for the cash, and handed it to the lady with a big, disarming smile.  
  
Then he’d taken the shopping bag, looked down to his left-  
  
and Sam was gone.  
  
So now he ran through the mall, shopping bag slung over his shoulder. “Sammy!” he called. “Sam? Sam!”  
  
Several people turned around to look, but none of them were a floppy-haired three-year-old belonging to one Dean Winchester.  
  
Dean growled and came to a stop in the middle of two intersecting halls, the main wing extending to more shops and the crossways leading to exits. He forced himself to calm down, take a deep breath, and think of what Dad might do.  
  
Right. Okay. _Track down Sammy_. Where would Sam go? There was a reader board with a map of the mall in the middle of the intersection and Dean scanned it quickly, trying to spot something that would have caught his little brother’s attention. Bookstore? Maybe. Dad would probably check there first, but Dean didn’t think so. Sammy loved books, but he didn’t usually go for them on his own. He’d pick them out from the library shelf, sure, but then he’d toddle straight back to Dean, heave his choices into his brother’s lap, scramble up himself to plop on his bottom in the protective circle of Dean’s arms, and wait expectantly to be read his stories.  
  
Sam wouldn’t be interested in any of the clothing or jewelry or electronics stores (unless they had tvs out front with cartoons playing, but Dean doubted that), and he wouldn’t like any of the shops with strong-smelling lotions or perfumes. That cut out most of the directory board. There was another children’s store at one end of the mall. That one might have toys, and Sammy might have gone there, but how would he have known about it? They didn’t walk past any signs for it, Dean was sure. Anyway, it wasn’t a logo he recognized, and Sammy couldn’t read.  
  
The food court was at the other end of the mall, too, but all Dean could smell from where he stood was french fries and fried food. Sammy definitely wouldn’t have gone after that- he was getting weird and picky about his food and always wanted apple sauce or carrot sticks instead of fries anymore.  
  
Dean peered at the sign. Maybe Sammy _had_ gone to the bookstore after all, and he didn’t know his little brother as well as he thought he did? Nah. There had to be something he’d missed….  
  
 _Ahah!_  
  
Dean quickly found the right direction and sprinted off, the shopping bag flapping and banging his ankles. He skidded to a stop in front of the pet store and hurried in, looking around.  
  
Sammy sat in the middle of an aisle, sticking his hands between the wire bars of the cages and giggling as a fluffy brown and black puppy licked at his fingers. In the aisles around him more puppies barked and cats meowed and birds chirped, the combined noise plenty loud for Sam to have heard from the children’s store.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean groaned, and flopped down beside his little brother. “You know you’re not supposed to run off like that!”  
  
Sam looked up at him with a big, dimpled smile. “Dee, lookit the doggy!”  
  
“I’m looking at the doggy, Sammy,” Dean said dutifully. “It’s getting slobber all over your hands.”  
  
The puppy barked excitedly as Sam waggled his wet fingers. “Woof, woof!” Sammy shouted happily.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You think I should get a collar for you too, Sammy? Property of Dean Winchester, if found please call because he probably ran off again like he knows he’s not supposed to?”  
  
“Woof!” Sammy giggled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is 9, Dean is 13.

"Jesus Christ, Sam."

Sam looked up, hands still planted on his knees as he bent over, gasping for breath. "Dad?"

"That was fourteen minutes, Sam," Dad snapped, his arms folded and his eyebrows drawn in a frown. "Most people can _walk_ a mile faster than that."

Sam stood up shakily, pressing a hand under his ribs to try and ease the sharp ache in his side. "Sorry, Dad," he panted. "I was trying, I was running the whole time, you can ask Dean-"

"I don't need to ask Dean, I could see it for myself," Dad interrupted irritably. "Saw you _jogging_ , not running."

"I was going as fast as I could!" Sam protested. He was _tired_ , why couldn't Dad understand that? He'd only finally gone to bed at midnight because of a long book report he'd had to write, and then Dad had woken him and Dean at four-thirty on a freezing November morning for running drills. He hadn't even been allowed to eat or drink anything first!

"Not fast enough, Sam," Dad growled. "You think a werewolf's gonna run slow so you can catch up without getting sweaty?" He turned sharply to end the conversation and look back the way Sam had come. "There's Dean. He's finishing his third mile already."

Sam looked over. Dean was coming around the last corner of the park trail at a steady sprint, and skidded to a stop in front of them with a cloud of dust.

"Woo hoo!" he yelled, slinging a sweaty arm around Sam's shoulders and nearly knocking him over. "Some way to wake up, huh Sammy?"

Sam felt childish and ashamed of himself even as he leaned into Dean's side. He didn't deserve any comfort, after all, even if Dean didn't know he was giving it. Dean. Perfect, lanky, athletic Dean. His brother was already as tall as or taller than most of the oldest boys at his last few schools, and he had longer legs and wider shoulders and more muscle than most of them, too. Even the football players! Sam was still the shortest boy in his classes, just like always. His jeans drug on the ground, and his t-shirts hung off his shoulders, and he was still chubby and soft with what Dean called 'baby fat' but the other students called worse things.

"Sam," Dad barked, and when Sam met his eyes he was scowling at the way Dean had automatically shifted to cradle his little brother against his side. "Another mile, then we'll go. Dean, go stretch out."

"But Dad," Sam protested.

"No buts, Sam. Get going."

"But Dad-"

"The longer you complain, Sam, the longer it'll take before we get to leave. How long do you wanna make Dean wait before he can go back to the car and get some water?" Dad asked shrewdly.

Sure enough, Sam's stomach plummeted. Of course he wouldn't do anything to hurt Dean! Sighing, he ducked out of his brother's grip and trudged back onto the trail.

"Hey, wait up!" Dean said suddenly, and caught up. "I'm good for one more go, I'll come with you," he offered, and flashed Sam a quick smile.

"Dad told you to go stretch out," Sam mumbled, staring at the ground a yard or two ahead as he picked up his feet in a shuffling jog. "And I'm _slow_."

"Perfect," Dean said easily, matching Sam's pace even though Sam knew that with his long stride he could definitely power-walk faster than they were going. "I'm too tired to go faster, anyway."

"Dean," Dad called.

Dean waved over his shoulder. "No problem, we'll be back around in a few minutes." Then he pressed a hand into Sam's back and gently pushed him to go a little faster. They rounded the trees at the first corner, and Dad was out of sight.

"Just go ahead of me," Sam panted. This was awful, having Dean trot patiently along at his shoulder.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean said cheerfully.

Sam coughed into his sleeve. "But if you just hurry back, maybe Dad will let you go get water."

"Sam," Dean sighed, "if you ever suggest I _leave_ you, just for something like water, I'm gonna put a collar on you and tow you around on a leash so I can make sure you never try and get left behind again."

Sam would've liked to have sighed, too, but he didn't have the breath.

A few turns and trees later, when Sam was starting to gasp painfully again, Dean stopped. He reached out and grabbed Sam's shoulder to stop him, too.

"Hold up a sec, Sammy," Dean murmured, rising up on his toes to peer back towards where Dad was, well out of sight behind bushes and branches. Sam stopped gladly and bent over again, clutching his sides as he panted.

"What's up?" he wheezed.

Dean ignored his question and rubbed his back sympathetically. "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam waved him off and stood as straight as he could, hunching over a little to one side. Dean eyed him for a long moment, then turned and knelt on the ground.

"Come on."

Sam stared. "What?"

Dean gestured impatiently at his back. "Come on, hop up. Dad won't be able to see us except for that little bit in the middle and the last stretch. You can jump down for those."

Sam hesitated, but tiredness overcame pride and he clambered up onto Dean's back, hooking his arms around his brother's neck and resting his head gratefully on Dean's shoulder. Dean stood and hitched him up, hooking his arms under Sam's knees.

"There we go," Dean said cheerfully, and set off at a brisk run. Sam tucked his face into Dean's neck and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and tried not to feel the way his soft belly pressed against Dean's back while his knees pressed into Dean's six-pack.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean sighed, not even a little out of breath even though he was running with his nine-year-old brother clinging to his back. "Don't be, okay? You're just a kid right now. You're supposed to be like this, alright? You're not supposed to run miles for fun or lift weights or anything yet."

"That's not what Dad thinks," Sam grumbled. "He'd probably say something like 'The ghosts won't wait for you to grow up, Sam! Get running!'"

"Yeah, well, Dad's not the one looking out for you, is he?" Dean pointed out. That's my job." He twisted his head to meet Sam's eyes as best he could. "And I'm saying the training, the working out, anything more than what Dad's here to see you do, it can all wait until you're my age, okay? That's a whole four years. _And_ a few months. Until then, you're supposed to be a kid and eat cookies and get piggy-back rides."

Sam sighed and tucked his head back down into Dean's neck. "I'm not a kid, jerk," he mumbled.

"You're _my_ kid, bitch."

Sam smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a big difference between twelve and seventeen, and Dean could feel every single moment of it.

"Sam," he barked, because he didn't trust his voice come out level or without a growl. "Just drop it, okay? You wanna go out, I'm going with you. End of story."

"But that's not _fair_ ," Sam moaned. The kid was almost in tears and probably just as mad about that as he was about Dean insisting on staying within arm's reach, he figured. Puberty sucked. Dean was glad to be far away from those uncontrollable hormones- not that he ever had too much of a problem, given that he worked _his_ hormones off with the cheerleaders instead of going alternately moody and toddler-tantrum-y like Sam. Still. He sympathized. Not enough to give in, though.

"I know it's not fair, baby brother," Dean sighed, and crossed his arms as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. "But that's the rule. Take it or leave it."

Sam scowled. "I'm not a baby."

"I _know_ you're not, Sam, but you're not an adult yet either, so until then you gotta listen to me."

" _No_ ," Sam said in that drawn-out whiny voice he'd perfected over the last few months. "You always call me _baby_ brother now. You used to just say _little_ brother, now it's always _baby, baby, baby_ …."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I _know_ you're not a baby, Sam," he gritted out. "It's just that for some reason now that I _am_ a grownup I look at you moping and whining at me and think about the sweet little baby boy you used to be, when you'd smile and be happy and only cry if I _didn't_ go everywhere with you."

"I'm not crying!" Sam shouted, his eyes screwed up and blotchy and definitely more than a little wet.

"Sam," Dean groaned. "Just. No, okay? I'm not in the mood for this, and you're ten seconds away from throwing a tantrum on the floor. Maybe tomorrow, alright? You're not going anywhere tonight unless it's with me and- no. Just sit down and cool off. I'm going to make dinner."

Sam glared furiously at him, hands tightening into fists. "You're such a _jerk_ ,"he snarled, the word holding none of the usual playful affection. "You're _mean_ and _hypocritical_ and you're a _jerk_ and I _hate you_!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not liking you too much right now myself, princess," Dean snapped. He spun on his heel and strode to the door, figuring he'd cool off himself under the hood of the car and trying to erase the image of tears finally spilling down Sam's cheeks.

Dean spent an hour rubbing in polish so hard a tiny corner in his mind worried about taking off paint, then started cleaning the interior. When it got to the point that he found himself cleaning out the air vents with a little paintbrush he hadn't even known he had, he decided enough time had gone by, closed up the car, and headed inside.

"Sam?" he yelled. Their bedroom door was shut, as he'd expected. "Sammy, you hungry? I'm gonna start dinner."

There was nothing but silence from the other room.

"Sa-am," Dean called. "Come on, dude. You don't hurry, I'm not gonna put in anything green."

Sam usually responded to that, even if it was just an insult, but this time he got nothing. Dean sighed and went to their door, rapping softly on it with his knuckles.

"Sammy. Come on, man. I know you're feeling pretty pissed at me, okay? We both lost our tempers and we both said shit we don't mean. Right? I shouldn't've called you a baby boy or a princess. You know I don't mean it like that, huh? Sammy?"

There was still no noise from the room- not even rustling covers, like Sam twisting fretfully around on the bed the way he'd done since he really was a baby boy and rolled around in his blankets whenever he was upset. Dean frowned.

"Sammy?"

He pushed open the door. The room was empty. Dean clenched his teeth.

"Oh, you are _so_ dead when I get through with you, baby boy."

Dean tended to come off as a cocky, impulsive kinda guy, but he knew how to sit down and plan in the midst of a fire fight. Or in this case, in the midst of his little brother being a world-class bitch and running off into the night.

Now. Where would Sam run off _to_?

Dean really didn't think he'd head to the party he'd been whining about. He'd only wanted to go when he got home because he was still so excited over being asked somewhere just days after coming to town, but Dean knew Sam- house parties hosted by the popular kids, where he wouldn't really know anybody and would probably spend the night being a wallflower trying to avoid illicit cigarettes and getting laughed at, were definitely not Sam's thing. If he'd stayed clear-headed instead of throwing a tantrum, he would have come to the same conclusion. He'd certainly come to it before he got halfway to the house.

Libraries were closed. Coffee shops were open, and probably wouldn't mind a school kid sitting around for a few hours with a book and a single drink. But that was also the most obvious choice, and Sam was smart enough not to make it.

There were plenty of options on his mental list, really, but again, Dean _knew_ Sam. He'd been upset, steaming, and just starting to cry (and no, Dean wasn't going to let himself think about that or he'd have to relinquish any big brother credits he had). He wouldn't want to be around people, and he'd have a lot of energy to work off. He'd walk to the park a couple miles away.

Dean got up, threw his jacket over his shoulders, picked up the car keys and strode to the door.

His cell phone lying on the table rang once, then stopped. Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob.

The phone rang again. He dropped the keys, leapt across the room and snatched it up. "Dad?"

"Dean?"

"Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam said again. His voice was tinny and thick.

Dean clutched the phone tightly. "Sam? Where are you? Are you okay? What's wrong? What code are we at?"

"Um…green," Sam stuttered. "Dean, please?"

"Yeah, okay, buddy, just calm down," Dean muttered, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could scoop up the keys and grab one of his hoodies out of his duffle. Green. Green was okay. Plain green, on the scale he'd come up with for Sam when green, yellow and red wasn't enough so they'd gone for all the colors on the rainbow instead with patterns, meant lost but not hurt or in danger. He could deal with that. "Where are you, Sammy? You were going to the park, right?"

"Mm-hmm." Sam's voice sounded a little whimpery, so Dean jogged out to the car without even checking the salt lines and started her up faster than she liked. "But I don't know- I turned somewhere, or something, I tried to find it again but it's dark and I don't know which way I'm facing and I know Dad says we're always supposed to know the directions and it's so easy but I don't _know-"_

"Hey hey hey, shhh, it's okay, little brother, I'm already on my way, alright?" Dean soothed, driving one-handed so he could keep the phone up and peering out of the windows. "Where are you, Sam? Can you tell me what you're seeing around you?"

"I- I don't _know_ , I haven't been here yet," Sam hiccupped.

"I know you haven't, Sammy, but I probably have, right? I've driven all over this place already," Dean said evenly, hoping Sam would pick up on his slow and gentle voice and calm down a little. "What's around you, Sammy? You calling from a pay phone out front of somewhere or are you inside?"

"Payphone," Sam sniffled, "outside…um…the New Great Wall Chinese Restaurant. And- and there's a yarn shop across the street. And the building next door is turquoise but I can't read the sign, and- and- Dean, I'm _sorry_ , I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to say I hate you!"

"I know, Sammy, I know you didn't, it's okay," Dean said, and wrenched the wheel to make a quick left turn through a red light. "I know exactly where you are, kiddo, just hang on a minute, okay? I'm gonna be right there real soon."

"Dean-"

_Click._

Dean swore. Sam had probably had to find the quarters he'd used on the street sides, so it was doubtful he'd be able to call back. It wouldn't really matter, though, if he could just go a little faster.

In a highly illegally short time Dean whipped the car around the last corner separating him from his lost baby brother. Sam stood huddled under a street light halfway down the block, arms crossed over his chest and eyes looking teary even from so far away. Dean screeched to a stop in front of him in the middle of the road and jumped out. Sam was already running towards him.

"Dean, I'm _sorry_ -"

"Hey, shhh, calm down, Sammy," he murmured, grabbing the kid by the shoulders and hauling him into his arms. Sam, already stressed out from the fight and hungry from missing dinner and tired from walking and scared from getting lost, flung his arms around Dean's chest and burst into tears.

"Aww, Sammy," Dean sighed, and wrapped his arms tighter around his boy's back, running one hand up Sam's back to card through his hair and press his head into his shoulder. "Come on, Sam. It's okay. Must've been kinda scary, huh? But I found you, didn't I? Always gonna find you, no matter what happens, Sam. You're okay. That's it, you're okay."

Sam's heaving sobs slowly tapered down into silent tears. Dean kept petting his hair and murmuring nonsense until another car passed down the street. Dean had left the Impala in the single right lane with the door wide open, and the other driver had to swerve violently.

"Get out of the damn road, idiot!" the man yelled, leaning out of his window.

"Oh, go fuck yourself!" Dean shouted automatically as the car roared off.

Sam snorted wetly. Dean leaned back a little to peer down at his red and blotchy face.

"You alright?"

Sam shrugged and wiped his shirt sleeve across his nose. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Gross, dude. Come on."

He kept an arm around Sam's shoulders and led him back to the idling car. Sam made to climb into the open door and slide through, but Dean kept his grip and stopped him. He reached in and grabbed his hoodie, and carefully pulled it over Sam's head. Dean smoothed Sam's hair back when his head popped out through the neck hole.

"There we go. Better? It's pretty cold out here, huh? You didn't even grab a jacket."

Sam's lip quivered again. "I'm _sorry_ ," he mumbled. "I didn't mean it, I didn't want to run away, I just wanted to go for a walk…."

"I know," Dean said. "And we'll be having a talk on that tomorrow. Well." He cast his eyes up, thinking. "Not so much a talk as a me-tanning-your-ass-for-disobeying-direct-orders-a nd-putting-yourself-in-danger, then a remedial course on telling directions by whatever stars or stuff you've got handy."

"De-ean," Sam whined, flapping his hands irritably in the too-long sweatshirt sleeves.

"Sorry, baby brother, but them's the rules," Dean said airily. He gently pushed Sam into the car, climbed in after him, and set off for the home of the moment. At the first stop light, he glanced over at Sam. The poor kid sat scrunched up against his door, curled up small in the hoodie and looking thoroughly miserable. Dean sighed, reached out an arm, and hooked Sam's shoulders to slide him over and press the boy up tight against his side. "I swear," he muttered. "I'm gonna put a collar on you, you know that? If found, call Dean Winchester for retrieval."

"De-ean!" Sam whined again, trying to push his brother's arm away. Dean just laughed and squeezed the kid tighter.

* * *

Wow! Got a guest comment (so this is the only way I can respond) about "threatened abuse" in this chapter. The "you are so dead" line in the beginning, I think, can't be it, because it's something pretty much every sibling says to the other when they're angry while obviously not actually meaning it (they say things like that or "I'm gonna kill him" to each other all the time on the show), so I'm assuming they meant Dean's "tanning your ass" line at the end? I can see how someone might be offended by that, but I sooooo didn't mean to imply child abuse. Not at all. I'm not even going to bother mentioning how obviously against real-life child abuse I, along with presumably everyone here, am. In fic terms, sure, I've got some going from John in the previous chapter of this fic and in my Guardian Angel Dean fic, but in Supernatural-world, I absolutely cannot fathom Dean ever being abusive towards any child, let alone Sam. I put that line in there and I'm going to leave it there because 1, it sounds to me like something macho-man Dean would say after a cuddly chick flick moment, and 2, John strikes me as the kind of guy- because of his background and his generation- to go for the standard "socially acceptable" (back then) physical punishments with his children, like spanking or standing in a corner for a time out. Following that, I'd imagine the threat of a spanking is something Dean would have heard a _lot_ growing up, so he in turn uses it on Sam. I don't think he'd ever actually follow through with it, though...but even if he did, he wouldn't be setting out to hurt Sam, and in THIS SPECIFIC CASE with THESE TWO SPECIFIC PEOPLE, I wouldn't consider it child abuse.

Ugh, long a/n. Sorry. But now I've explained myself and I hope no-one else is offended!


	4. Chapter 4

The air smelled like smoke, and Dean was panicked.

Dean wasn't the type to panic more than once a decade or so, but smoke wasn't good. Smoke meant fire, and _fire_ wasn't good, not on any day, not on any hunt unless you'd started it yourself and something nasty was dying in the middle of it. When he definitely _hadn't_ started it but the corn field was going up in flames anyway, and his little brother was somehow suddenly missing, and he somehow hadn't noticed for at least ten minutes because he was still too used to working alone and talking aloud without answer to fill the silence, and the little brother in question still froze and went into shock sometimes when he smelled so much as a match burning-

This was definitely time for even Dean Winchester to start freaking out.

"Sam!" he bellowed, rising up on his toes to scan over the corn stalks. He couldn't see anything- the smoke was thick and black, which was good as it obscured the death throes of the ugly-of-the-week from anyone attracted by the fire; and seriously fucking bad, because it also obscured paralyzed-with-fear-and-memories younger brothers, no matter how ridiculously tall they were.

"Sam!" he yelled again. "Sam! Answer me, right now!" The smoke was clogging his throat and making his hands shake and his eyes run. "Code yellow, Sam, major fucking yellow! Yellow with goddamn stripes!"

There was no answer.

_No,_ he told himself furiously. His hands were shaking so badly now that his gun nearly slipped from his fingers. _No. Calm down and think_.

Sam couldn't be in the field- he couldn't. He'd been heading back to the car, he'd _had_ to have gotten back to the car; there'd been plenty of time... He'd fallen earlier and scraped up his palms, so Dean sent him back to clean up while he finished off the hunt. But Sam should be able to hear him from the car, parked on the side of the road just thirty yards away….

Dean peered out, making sure the fire-spitting monster was definitely down and crumbling to ash, then turned quickly and sprinted back to the car.

Sam wasn't there.

"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, and then, because that hadn't been strong enough, he bellowed, "FUCK!" What the hell had he been thinking, taking Sammy on a hunt like this? Why hadn't he stuck to fire-free hunts for a few months longer? Christ, Sammy probably stood there looking into those flames, seeing his girlfriend on fire and smelling her burning flesh, and he'd've taken off running. He put on a tough face during the day, but Dean _knew_ he was still broken up. He'd've run fast and far, wanting nothing to do with the brother who pulled him back from trying to save her….

Dean didn't remember moving but all the sudden he was on the ground, leaving back against one dusty tire. Sam was gone. Sam was _gone_ , just after he'd gotten him back, and it was all his fault.

Dean tipped his head back to look up at blurry stars. What the hell was he supposed to do now? If Sam wanted out, he had to let him go. He couldn't drag Sam back again, not after all this. He'd let his baby brother go, keep an eye on him from across the street like he had all through Sam's time at college. And Dean, he'd keep hunting and searching for their dad. Alone, again. But after having Sammy back, even for a while, how could he….

Hang on.

That light, low on the horizon…that wasn't a star. That was a _house_. How had they missed that? They'd checked, wanting to make sure no-one would come running over at the first sound of gunshots. All they'd seen was a farm house a good five miles away. But this light was on a house just a couple minutes walk down the road.

Maybe…maybe Sam had seen the light and gone there, to make sure they were alright and explain away the fire?

Dean scrambled to his feet and threw himself into the car, wrenching the key in the ignition. He couldn't even stand the sixty seconds it would take to run if he could drive the distance in twenty. Sam had to be there, he just had to be- stupid Sammy with his stupid big heart, always _always_ wandering off as soon as Dean's fucking back was turned, he'd _always_ done this, four years old and he'd run back out of the grocery store to climb into a box of puppies, ten years old and he'd walked into the wrong theatre while Dean was buying popcorn and had nightmares about dinosaurs for weeks, eighteen and he'd packed up a bag and run off to California….

Dean spun the car into the driveway, kicking up gravel all over the place, and barely spared the time to shove the gearstick into park before he threw himself out of the car. He leapt up the steps of the plain white one-story house three at a time. Dark blue curtains were drawn over all the windows but the porch light was on big and bright, which was what Dean had seen from down the road. Not bothering to knock on the door that was keeping him from his brother, Dean threw it open and strode in, looking around. "Sam!" he shouted.

"Yeah?"

He was here, he really was- Dean had known he would be, but he couldn't help it, couldn't blame Sam for not wanting anything to do with him again- Dean crossed a feminine-looking living room and rounded the corner between him and Sam's voice.

Sam sat at a round wooden table at one end of a green and white kitchen that didn't look like it had been updated in at least fifty years. A small woman about the same age stood at the counter, shaking sugar cubes into a bowl on a tray. She smiled at Dean.

"So you're the brother!" she said. "I'm Madge." Dean, surprised and confused as he was, didn't miss the little leer and flick of her eyes up and down his body. He backed up slightly. She blushed.

"Yes, ma'am, this is my brother Dean," Sam said politely, and fixed Dean with a significant look and raised eyebrows. "You catch up to those kids, Dean? The ones we saw with the campfire that got out of control?"

Dean caught on. "Uh- no," he answered, sidling around the kitchen towards Sam. He kept his back to the wall after noticing the lady's eyes drop down around his ass when he started to turn. "They got in their car and zoomed off."

"Irresponsible hooligans," Madge snapped. She brought her tray over to the table and set it down in front of Sam. "I called the fire department as soon as Sam here came by to make sure I was alright and didn't have any pets that might get scared and run off. Now, coffee or tea?"

"Huh?" Dean felt off-center. He'd gone from the adrenaline high of a hunt to the utter crashing heartbreak of being certain Sammy had run from him again to standing in the middle of a randy old lady's kitchen, being offered tea.

"Dean likes black coffee," Sam offered for him. Madge poured coffee from a percolator on her tray into a white china cup, which she pressed into Dean's hands.

"Sit down," she admonished him briskly, and when Dean hesitated, she gave him a quick smack on the ass. Dean startled and jerked so hard he sloshed his coffee, and quickly sat down next to Sam.

Who was smirking.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean hissed under his breath. Sam bit his lip like he was trying to keep himself from bursting out laughing. Dean glared.

"Now, Sam, do you take cream or sugar in your tea?"

"Cream, please," Sam answered with a beaming smile. Madge beamed back and set a larger ceramic mug in front of him, filled it from a teapot, and added a little cream.

"There," Madge said. "You give that a try." She poured herself a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and sat down across from Dean. "Now, Dean," she said, reaching out and placing her hand firmly on the one Dean had resting on the table. He jerked in surprise again. Sam snorted into his cup, and Dean kicked him. "Sam tells me you two are on a road trip! What sorts of exciting things have you seen so far?"

"Um," Dean said blankly, trying to surreptitiously inch his trapped hand away. "Well, a couple weeks ago we were in Wyoming and got to go through some of the parks- Sam, what the hell are those?!"

Sam looked up, blinking innocently over his mug. Dean could see, now, why Madge had given him a bigger cup: Sam had both hands wrapped around the mug to bring it to his mouth, because both hands were covered from wrists to fingertips in what looked like pink knitted socks. "What?"

"What- your hands, Sam!"

"Oh, I gave him those," Madge said breezily. "Sam told me about how he tripped trying to run after those kids. I helped him wash out the cuts and put some cream on, but you really should cover scrapes like that up until the cream has a good chance to work its way in. Of course you boys' hands are much too big for any of my gloves-" Madge giggled, blushing again, and she 'absently' traced Dean's hand with her fingertips (while Sam snorted so hard he had to pretend to have a coughing fit, and Dean gritted his teeth so hard he thought he might crack one)- "but I had these slipcovers sitting out that I made for protecting my shoes when I go on vacation, and they fit perfectly!"

Sam smiled serenely and waggled his pink, fuzzy fingers at his brother. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. Seriously. Sometimes he wondered, in absolute all honestly, how someone like him and someone like _Sam_ could be related.

A phone rang in another room, and Madge set her cup down and stood up. "That'll probably be Bill, down the way," she said. "His son works for the fire department, he'll be wanting to let me know how things are going. You two help yourselves!"

As soon as Madge was out of the room, Dean whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo. Sam frowned.

"What?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Dude. Really? You think I'm gonna just let you sit there with fuzzy pink knitted shoe cozies on your hands without sharing the love with everybody we know?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, then apparently decided it wasn't worth it and switched gears. "Oh, I'm keepin' 'em, man. Madge said I could. You're just jealous you can't work all the cool shit like these," he said loftily, and took a noisy slurp of his tea.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Sam," he deadpanned. "That's exactly my problem, here." Suddenly tired, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and sighed heavily, slumping down in his chair.

"You okay?" Sam asked, his voice a little tentative. Dean snorted. He could just imagine the way Sam looked now, mouth turned down and eyebrows pulled together and eyes concerned, all over those ridiculous pink cozies.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Just- Jesus Christ, Sammy."

"What?"

Sam definitely sounded a little worried now, so Dean dropped his arms to the table and glanced over at his little brother. Sure enough, Sam was fixing him with the 'I'm nervous and worried about you so help me make it better' version of the puppy eyes. Dean grinned a little. "You, man. Running off like that? Scared me half to death, dude."

The puppy eyes widened a little and shifted into the 'I'm so sorry don't be mad and let me make it up to you?' look. Dean chuckled.

"Nah, put away the eyes, man. Just- you know I'm getting a collar for you after this, right? If found, call Dean Winchester because this bitch probably wandered off again."

Sam shot him a full-dimple grin, like nothing bad had ever touched this kid in his life. "At least it'll give Madge a chance to get your phone number," he teased happily. "Jerk."


	5. Chapter 5

Before Dean got his brother back from the cage, he went to sleep every night praying to whoever the hell was still out there that he'd find a way to get Sam home. Then Sam did come back- or at least, a man that looked like Sam but just wasn't his baby brother, the one who's lip got all wobbly every time he went to clean the windshield at a gas station and found a moth with one wing stuck in the wipers, battered and barely clinging to life.

Seriously. Tears slipped out sometimes.

"It could've been there all night, trying to get free," Sam would whimper, turning big wet eyes at Dean as he slotted the gas nozzle back into place in the machine. "I tried to get it out but it's stuck, I'm just hurting it more."

Dean would try not to roll his eyes as he opened his arms and stepped forward, gesturing in with his fingers. "Come on, Sam," he'd sigh. "Bring it in."

And Sam would try to bury himself in his brother's shoulder while Dean resignedly rubbed his back with one hand and carefully picked the moth off the car with the other, trying to ignore the obvious stares of the other drivers.

That was his little brother. Not the soulless, heartless thing that fed Dean to vampires without a second thought.

And a little while after that, Dean _knew_ it wasn't his Sam in the passenger seat when he accidentally ran over a baby squirrel one morning, and all the man next to him did was complain about how annoying it would be to clean the blood and guts off the wheel.

He'd gotten Sam Winchester home, but now he prayed to get _his_ Sammy home.

Dean figured he should really learn what to wish for.

Sammy was back, alright- _Sammy_ , not Sam. With the wall broken through and memories of the cage swamping his mind, Sam had done what plenty of traumatized people did, according the books Bobby bought on the subject.

He regressed.

He wasn't the same as he had been as a little kid, because the original little Sammy Winchester was a loud, energetic, stubborn little shit most of the time. This Sam rarely spoke and wouldn't touch anything or go anywhere without encouragement. He liked to cling on to Dean just the same, though. Dean didn't mind the clinging when Sam was tiny- and he was tiny all the way up until halfway through high school, especially compared to Dean, who had all _his_ growth spurts early and started packing on muscle early, too. There was something he always liked about holding his baby brother in his arms, floppy hair tucked under his chin. It made him feel like no matter how many people he saw killed by monsters in the night, at least he could always keep _this_ little boy safe, held and hidden away from the world.

He never really stopped wishing he could do that, but it was a hell of a lot harder when Sam was actually bigger than him.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean sighed. He'd barely gotten through the back door before Sam latched onto him, arms heavy around his neck. "I know you wanna cuddle, man, but can I at least put the groceries down first? I don't even have any free hands to cuddle _with_."

Sam's arms tightened. This was actually sort of a good sign, because it meant he understood Dean wanted to leave him. Some days he didn't seem to understand much of anything.

"You alright, Dean?" Bobby asked, rounding the corner from the library. "I tried to keep him down but he pushed his way out to the door as soon as he heard the car roll up."

"Yeah, we're alright," Dean said, idly rubbing his cheek against Sam's hair. "Can you take the grocery bags? I don't think Sammy's gonna let go just yet."

Bobby agreeably took the bags and carried them through to the kitchen. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's back, and his little brother sighed contentedly at finally having his hug returned.

Dean could feel Sam's heartbeat through his back, slow and steady and even. He'd lost some muscle and weight, having spent the last few months sleeping at least ten hours a day and sitting in Bobby's library reading new-school fairy tales (the 'cleaned up versions' where Cinderella's stepsisters don't cut off their toes and the little mermaid doesn't try to murder her husband) instead of working out or chasing down wendigos. The new slimness and softness to Sam's arms and torso made him look more like he had as a teenager, after he finally got some height and added some bulk to it. The too-soon lines on Sam's forehead and around his eyes had smoothed out now that his biggest worry was how soon Dean was coming back every time he left the room, and his hair was longer than ever, because the one time Bobby came at him with a pair of scissors Sam had freaked and tried to hide in the corner of the bathroom.

Dean knew Bobby had had only good intentions, and he himself had jokingly begged Sam to let him fix the scraggly mop several times, but it didn't stop him keeping Sam all to himself for a few days. Bobby felt bad enough to not argue, even though Sam seemed to have forgotten the whole thing by the same evening.

They weren't so lucky every day, though. On the rare (but once was more than enough, Dean thought, and it had definitely been more than once) bad days, when Sam heard a loud noise or stayed in the kitchen while Bobby was cutting up chicken for dinner, he'd flip. He'd scream soundlessly, throat straining to make any sound. He'd scramble back into a corner and claw at the walls and floor, turning his fingers into a bloody mess. The blood seemed to make it worse. All Dean could do was push his way into Sam's space and wrap his arms around his brother, holding tight and pressing Sam's head under his chin so he could hear Dean's heartbeat while Dean murmured soothing nonsense into his ear.

"It's okay, Sammy," he'd say, clutching tightly around Sam's upper arms so Bobby could get in there with the gauze and tape and clean up Sam's hands. "You're alright. I gotcha. Whatever you're seeing, it's not there. Just you and me. You're gonna be fine, kiddo, you're gonna be just fine, I gotcha now, not gonna let you go, the Devil can't have you 'cos I got you back now and I'm not letting go…."

Sam would shudder and shake and plead silently against Dean's throat.

Those weren't even the worst days, really. The worst ones were when Sam wasn't hallucinating anything but thought he was, and tried to get back to Dean. He still had all his hunter instincts buried down somewhere, so when he decided to sneak out of the house and take off wandering down the road, it could take even Bobby and Dean a little while to notice Sam wasn't still where they'd settled him.

That was the reason why, after all these years of threatening, Dean had actually bought a collar, gotten it inscribed, and buckled it carefully around Sam's neck.

Well. Not the only reason.

A couple weeks before, Sam had been lying on the sofa and staring out the window at a couple of swallows swooping through the air outside. He'd been yawning more and more, and Dean finally stood up from the desk where he'd been translating a scroll for Bobby.

"I think it's naptime, Sammy," he said, and gently jostled Sam's shoulder. Sam just blinked up at him. "You wanna sit up for me, tiger? I don't wanna throw my back out tryin' to get you off this sofa by myself."

Sam slowly got to his feet, immediately listing forward to lean on his brother and tuck his head into Dean's neck.

"Yeah, I know, buddy," Dean sighed, and hugged him back. "You're tired, okay? Gonna get you upstairs and put you down for a nap." He could remember saying almost the exact same thing countless times when Sammy was little and he both didn't want to sleep but didn't like feeling sleepy. He'd clutch on to Dean like a baby koala until Dean pried him off, settled him down, and pet his hair and shoulders.

The same trick still worked, and Dean couldn't decide whether he was relieved or a little bit more heartbroken.

They made their way slowly up the stairs, Sam's Sasquatch feet lumbering along like they weren't quite under his control. Dean got a shoulder under Sam's arm to keep him from collapsing down onto the bed, pulled off his brother's shoes once he was settled, and shook out the quilt they left folded over the end of the bed. It wasn't quite long enough to cover Sam shoulder to toe, but it wasn't really cold, either, so that didn't matter.

"You ready to go to sleep, Sam?" Dean asked, patting his hip as he curled up under the quilt.

Sam looked up at him with his eyebrows furrowed hopefully, and twisted his neck to press his face into the pillow. Dean smiled.

"Yeah, I gotcha, big guy." He reached out and started finger-combing Sam's hair. He didn't just do it as a soother, anymore- Sam's hair was right down to his shoulders and he didn't take care of it himself the way he used to (no matter what Sam always liked to tell people, _Dean_ knew that his duffle bag always held a hair dryer, two brushes, a comb, and an expensive shampoo and conditioner set that Sam seemed to think Dean didn't know about just because he always snuck out in the middle of the night to buy them- like he thought Dean didn't keep an eye on him 24/7, or something). He didn't really like Dean properly brushing it anymore, either. Finger-combing was the only chance Dean had to get the tangles out, and now that he was using Dean's cheap drugstore shampoo, the strands were dry and brittle. Dean tried not to think about 'old Sam' vs. 'new Sam' too much, but he couldn't help thinking ruefully that 'old Sam' would probably have shrieked like a little girl if he could see his out of control split ends.

Sam sighed a deep, relaxed sigh into his pillow. Dean scratched his nails gently over his brother's scalp, and Sammy gave him a happy little full-body wriggle. When the sighs tapered off into slow, deep breaths, Dean rose and quietly left the room to get back to his translation.

Two hours later, Bobby came in to refill his coffee for about the fortieth time. "How's it comin'?"

Dean groaned and scraped his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. "You're a sadistic bastard and I hate you."

"That bad, huh?" Bobby hunted through the piles of random odds and ends on one bookshelf and produced a bottle of bourbon, which he opened and tilted generously over Dean's mug. "Where's Sam?"

"Upstairs, taking a nap," Dean sighed, nodding his head gratefully at the addition to his coffee and taking a deep gulp. "I took him up a couple hours ago."

Bobby frowned. "Your brother's not upstairs. I just checked."

Dean shot upright in his seat. "Then where is he?"

"… _Balls_ ," Bobby cursed. "Get your coat, he must've snuck out again."

They hurried out into the scrap yard, splitting up and checking all of the cars and outbuildings. It was never easy, finding Sam. They might be hunters, the best trackers in the world, but so was Sam, and it was nothing but muscle memory for him to walk in a way that they couldn't follow.

"He's not here," Bobby puffed, rounding the corner of an outbuilding right in front of Dean. "He must've left, walked down the road."

Dean swore loudly and aimed a vicious kick at the shell of a car next to him. He raked his hands through his hair. "Alright," he said through gritted teeth. "Alright. Jesus Christ, he could've left a couple _hours_ ago, he might not've been all the way asleep when I left him and got right up and walked out. He could be _miles_ away by now." He kicked the car again, and because that didn't jar him enough, he slammed his fist down on the crumpled hood.

"Dean! Idjit, won't help us none if you break your hand on top of everything else-" Bobby gripped Dean's shoulders and corralled him roughly back to the front of the yard, heading for his truck. "I'll go one way, you go the other, we'll track him down, okay? Just get your head on straight and get going before your brother stumbles into something that wants to kill him like he always does."

~""~""~""~

Dean drove slowly. The landscape was flat, which sort of helped, but he didn't really think Sam would go trekking out across the scrubland. When he left like this, he was trying to get away from what he thought was Lucifer pretending to be Dean and trying to find the real Dean, which meant he'd follow a road.

He'd been driving for a few miles, though, and gotten properly into the suburban outskirts of town. Dean didn't like this, not at _all_. There were too many people here, too many chances for Sam to run into something nasty or get carted away because someone thought he was insane and dangerous.

Hang on….

It was getting dark, especially now he was in town with buildings casting shadows over the streets, but Dean could still see well enough to notice an older man stepping out of a large house and holding a shirt in his hands that looked familiar.

In the same way that all of Sam's shirts were familiar, because Dean was standing right next to him when he'd bought every single one of them, and washed them, and seen them stretched across his brother's broad shoulders more times than he could count.

Dean wrenched the car over to the side of the road, ignoring the red line painted on the curb, and climbed out of the car with his back straight and his arms so tense he had to concentrate to keep from slamming the door shut. There was a small banner over the doorway the man with his brother's shirt still stood in, reading _Greater West FetLife._

"Oh, Sam," Dean groaned. "How do you do it, little brother?" Sighing and shoving his hands into his pockets, Dean made his way up the path from the sidewalk to the porch steps. "Excuse me," he called to the man, who was paying too much attention to something inside to hear Dean walk up.

He turned, and Dean could see that the guy wasn't quite as old and definitely a lot more built than he'd thought. Still, that was also definitely Sam's shirt he had- a white one with purple and blue sparrows on it, which no one but Sam would ever wear, and Dean recognized a little tear showing near the shoulder seam that Sam got and bitched incessantly about when a ghost threw a broken vase at him.

"Hi," the man said. "Are you here for the munch? You're pretty late, most people are getting ready to leave."

"Ah, no," Dean said politely. "Actually, I'm here because something of mine seems to have gotten mixed up with you guys and your 'munch' somehow." He just barely restrained himself from putting air quotes around the word 'munch,' not having any idea what it meant and not really wanting to offend the guy who could lead him to Sam and looked like he could throw a decent punch for somebody Bobby's age. He pointed at Sam's shirt instead. "That's his, you know where the rest of him is?"

The man glanced quickly over his shoulder, then shut the door and took a couple short steps forward so he could tower over Dean, still standing on the porch steps. Well- he tried to tower, anyway. It didn't really work when the guy was only maybe 5'10", and needed more than a couple low stairs to even meet Dean's eyes.

"Listen," the guy said with an ugly sneer, jabbing one thick finger into Dean's chest. "He was alone and unclaimed. I asked him if he wanted to come inside, and he came. I asked him if he wanted to kneel at my feet, and he did. Whatever you think you _had_ , he's mine now. I asked if he wanted to be, and he didn't say no."

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved past the guy, snatching Sam's shirt out of his hands on the way. "He didn't say yes either though, did he?" he snapped, and pushed the door back open. "Oh," he called over his shoulder. "And if I find out you laid a single finger on him, I'm gonna rip it off."

A number of people looked up at him, startled, from where they sat around a coffee table in a sparse living room. At least, some of them were sitting on the leather sofas- others knelt on the floor, most wearing collars in different shapes and sizes and some of them with leashes attached to the wrists of someone on a couch. Dean ignored all of them, because Sam was kneeling down in a corner alone, bare-chested and trying to look small. His wrists were wrapped in black nylon rope and tied to a large metal ring screwed into the floor.

Dean gritted his teeth and turned a furious glare on the rest of the room. "Anybody wanna tell me why you decided to kidnap a guy who's mute, mental, and clearly scared out of his mind?"

Sam's head shot up at Dean's voice, and his eyes were hazy and pleading.

"He came on his own," the guy from outside snapped. "I told you, I asked and he came. That's consenting."

"It is _not_ consenting, you fucking idiot, not saying no is not the same thing as saying yes!" Dean bellowed. "Why the hell did you take his clothes off, anyway?" As he spoke he knelt down in front of Sam, carefully keeping himself between his brother and everyone staring at him, took out his knife, and cut through the ropes. He rubbed Sam's wrists for a minute, then gently manhandled Sam's arms into his shirt. His t-shirt was nowhere in plain sight and Dean didn't feel like taking the time to look for it.

"He's so pretty to look at," a young woman on the sofa piped up, and Dean's scowl had her shrinking back into the cushions. "Steven said he didn't mind! And he calmed down when Steven was petting him!"

"Yeah, well, _I_ mind," Dean huffed. "Come on, Sammy, we're gonna go now, alright? I don't know how you always manage to get yourself into these things, I really don't." He calmly urged Sam to his feet, keeping a firm hold and anchoring his feet- because, as he'd expected, the second Sammy was upright he threw himself into Dean's arms, burrowing his face between Dean's throat and the collar of his jacket. "Yeah, I know. You're okay, I'm here now. I'm sorry you had to go looking."

"He agreed to come with me," Steven the idiot spit out, sounding cheated and desperate.

"I kinda doubt he did, man," Dean told him with an annoyed look. "Anyway, it's what I say that goes, not him."

"Well, if he's yours, why haven't you collared him?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I told you, dude," he said to Sam. "I've been telling you all these years I need to get a collar on you. 'Property of Dean Winchester, not Heaven's or Hell's or anybody else's'."

Steven scuttled forward again. "If he's not claimed and he came to me, then you can't just-"

"I'll tell you what _you_ can't do," Dean spit, pressing Sam's head into his shoulder and covering his other ear so he wouldn't have to hear. "You can't take my little brother- a guy who's messed up and out of his mind because he went to war, fought for all of you, went through torture like you can't even begin to imagine, the kind of shit you play around with- he nearly _died_ for all of you, and came back with fucking PTSD and flashbacks so bad the only way he could keep from going crazy was to go a different kind of crazy- you can't take him, and put your hands on him, and tie him up a corner and leave him terrified and thinking he's back in Hell, and then think that _I won't hunt you down._ "

There was utter silence in the room. Steven looked shell-shocked.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean muttered, pressing his lips into Sam's forehead. "We're going home."

~""~""~""~

Sam curled up as much as his long legs would let him and fell asleep with his head in Dean's lap almost as soon as he pulled away from the curb. Some of the books Dean had read said that sleep could be a natural response to trauma, a way for the brain to process what had just happened, so he left the radio off, wove his fingers through Sam's hair, and let him sleep.

He was quiet on the phone with Bobby, too. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to tell their friend exactly what had happened- exactly what had _almost_ happened, which could've been so much worse- and just said he found Sam wandering around town. He said they'd be a little late getting back, too, because they had an important stop to make.

When they pulled up and Dean half-carried his brother inside, Bobby came out immediately to take some of the weight, and Dean could see the moment Bobby noticed Sam's new jewelry- a plain red woven strap of a dog collar, buckled loosely around Sam's throat, with the embedded rectangular steel tag in front reading

_Dean Winchester's_

_Touch him and die._


	6. Chapter 6

Sam had gone quiet.  Well, he was always pretty quiet now, but this was a little different- child-like or not, he still managed to pull up that shifty look he’d perfected as a teenager, telling Dean he was going on a date with a girl from class when he was really going to an author’s book reading or filling out financial aid forms on a library computer.  _Christ_ , Dean thought.  What the hell had he done wrong raising this kid, that he pretended to go on dates so he could sneak off to the library?

It’s not like he’d stopped when he’d grown up, either.  Now there were things like open-late internet cafes and 24-hour diners with wifi, and Dean always had to go peer in the windows of every single one in town whenever Sam claimed he was leaving a bar with someone, because more likely than not he’d just wanted private time to check up on his favorite journalists’ blogs.

How, _how_ was Dean the older brother of a guy who thought ‘private time’ meant slouching down in a tiny booth with a ridiculously expensive cup of coffee to read an Aristotelian analysis of this week’s debates in the Senate?  Just the fact that he _knew_ the word Aristotelian made Dean a little sick.

“Don’t you fucking dare give me a definition, I already know as much as I need to,” he’d snapped, dragging Sam out of the internet café by the collar of his jacket.  “I can’t _believe_ you.  You don’t get enough time on that thing in between hunts, you have to sneak off and get more of it in secret?  _Lying_ to me about where you’re going?  You said you were going back to some brunette’s place!”

“The barista’s a brunette,” Sam had muttered guiltily.  But he was absently petting his laptop case at the same time, so Dean ruthlessly ignored any hint of an apology in those pathetic puppy eyes.

“You need help,” he’d said flatly.  “If we’re at the point where you’re sneaking around behind my back, going out and hiding in places like this to get your fix, I’m cutting you off.  You’re going cold turkey.  I’ll even quit with you, it wouldn’t be fair if I used it in front of you.  We’ll do our research out of newspapers like the old days.  And when you’re not in the room, I want to see you at a bar, drinking and feeling up chicks.  Got it?”

Sam just laughed like he’d been trying to hold it in.  Dean never figured out why.

Sammy laughed now more than he had for years, but it wasn’t really laughing, so Dean didn’t know how he felt about that.  He giggled over plenty of things, like the little kid he seemed to be now, but hearing him do it just reinforced the fact that Dean’s brother wasn’t really all there anymore.  He still spent most of his time trying to get Sammy giggling, because it was good to see him happy no matter what, and it was a hell of a lot better than seeing him scream at the devil.

But Sammy hadn’t been giggling much the last few weeks.  He hadn’t been doing much of anything, at least not where Dean could see him.  He got up later and went to bed earlier, and resolutely shut his door whenever he went into his room instead of leaving it open so he could hear Dean walking around.  Bobby wasn’t too worried about it yet, figured Sam was just testing boundaries- he said it might even be a good sign, might show that Sam was getting stronger and more confident and a little bit closer to his grown-up self.

Dean figured the boundary-testing thing was probably closer, though, because Sammy also had a new habit- stealing extra helpings of dessert.  Dean and Bobby didn’t make dessert all that often, even though Dean was actually pretty good at doing his own pie crusts and Bobby made a mean layer cake, but they turned it into a nightly thing after they both noticed servings going missing every time there was something to take.  Dean thought it was kinda cute, really, the way Sam would sneak downstairs at night like Dean couldn’t hear a 200 pound man tiptoeing along creaky floors, and how every time Dean looked away from the dining table his brother would reach out and snatch another cookie and shove it in his overflowing pockets.  Dean figured Sammy’s sweet tooth was coming back with a vengeance after twenty years of resolute suppression.

One morning, Dean woke up a little earlier than usual.  He wasn’t sure why, until he crept up to Sam’s room and put his ear to the door- Sam was up, walking around and whispering to himself.  He didn’t sound upset, and he’d definitely left the door shut, so Dean let him be and went down to make coffee.

Bobby lumbered in as Dean was draining his first cup, leaning against the counter.  “Mornin’,” he grunted, and poured himself a mug.  “Where’s Sam?”

“Still in his room,” Dean muttered, wondering how likely he was to get away with telling Bobby that Sammy really, really wanted the older hunter’s signature pancakes and bacon for breakfast.

Bobby hissed wordlessly, slamming his mug down on the counter and sloshing coffee everywhere.  Dean jumped, startled.

“What?  What’s wrong?”

Bobby threw him an exasperated glare.

“…No,” Dean snapped.  “No.  Don’t you fucking dare tell me he’s not in his room.  He was up there, like, fifteen minutes ago.  He couldn’t have come down the stairs, I’ve been _right here_ the whole damn time and I would’ve seen him.  He couldn’t have opened the window without us hearing it because that one squeaks like a bitch.”

“He’s not in his room, Dean,” Bobby sighed.

Dean felt an angry growl building up in his chest.  “CAS!” he bellowed.  “Get the fuck down here!”

Castiel had been busy, and Sammy had been scared of him the first few times he came by– scared to the point of cowering at Castiel’s feet, both of them looking helpless and distressed.  Cas explained with the most regretful expression Dean had ever seen on him that Sam’s skinned and battered soul was highly receptive to angel Grace after his time in the Cage, and right now he could feel Cas’ Grace but not distinguish it from any other angel’s- so every time Cas came near, he was thrust back into memories of Lucifer and Michael’s combined Grace filling up the Cage and burning him from the inside out.  When Sam was more himself again Cas’ Grace would be soothing to him, because his soul’s heightened sensitivity meant he would feel the soft enveloping of his wings and the gentle love (Cas’ words, not Dean’s, thank you very much) Cas could Gracefully project only to other angels– and Sam, now.  But until then, Castiel felt it was better he stay away, and Dean had to agree when it took him an hour just to get Sammy off the floor.

“Cas!  Get down here right the fuck now, man, Sammy’s gone, something’s taken him.”

“Goddamn angels,” Bobby muttered.  “Gonna have to make more coffee.”

Cas beamed in, all ruffled and intense.  “What-” he started.  Then his eyes went wide, and he sat abruptly down in a chair.  “What have you done since I was last here?”

Dean frowned and set his coffee very carefully down on the table.  Sam acting weird then disappearing, then Cas turning up asking what he’d done- based on a whole hell of a lot of past experience, that kind of thing didn’t bode well for anybody.  “I haven’t done _anything_ , Cas,” he growled.  “I’ve been taking care of Sammy and feeding him Lucky Charms and watching a whole lot of soap operas.  Why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on and what we’re gonna kill to get Sam back?”

Castiel blinked slowly and swiveled his head from side to side like an owl, taking in things Dean obviously couldn’t see.  “Gabriel has been here.”

“Gabriel,” Dean said.  “Like, Trickster Gabriel, the one we saw die?  Douche with a sugar problem and a lame girly dog?  That Gabriel?”

“The Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of the Lord,” Castiel told him reproachfully.   “I don’t know how, but traces of his Grace linger here- both weak and strong.  He came here some time ago, weakened, and he recovered here.”

Despite what his bookworm nerd of a little brother liked to tell people with a smug little grin, Dean could think.  So he thought.  Sam had gone quiet, like he was keeping a secret.  Sam had been spending more time in his room.  Sam had been hoarding sugary things.  Sam was so gonna get that leash on his neck.  “Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean swore.  “Where’s the holy oil and my lighter?  I’m gonna make sure that dick says _dead_ this time.”

~”~”~”~

Naturally, Castiel impressed upon him the grave mistake he’d be making in going after a resurrected Archangel unprepared- or rather, he gave him that _don’t be a fucking idiot_ look he somehow managed to do without actually moving any of the muscles in his face.  Bobby passed around coffee that was more bourbon than coffee, and they sat around the kitchen table to regroup.

“What the hell would Gabriel want with Sam, anyway?” Dean asked Cas.

“Shouldn’t we be wondering who or what brought him back from the dead?” Bobby interrupted, forgoing his coffee and swigging straight from the bottle instead.

Dean flapped a hand.  “Eh.  Die, come back, we’ve all done it a few times.  Old news.  But Sam’s not worth anything to him, is he?  Satan’s back in the box and his brain’s too scrambled to be any use.”

Castiel sniffed at his coffee cup, but didn’t touch it.  “I don’t know.  Perhaps he required a vessel and wanted one that he was familiar with, or one that wouldn’t put up a fight.”

“What d’you mean, not put up a fight?  Sammy would totally fight him off!” Dean snapped.

“You think?” Bobby asked.  “If some worn-out back-from-the-dead angel turned up, one who died tryin’ to help you two in the end, you really think your brother would turn him away?”

Dean gritted his teeth.  Because no, of course Sam wouldn’t turn him away, this was _Sam_.  The guy who honest-to-god climbed a tree once to get a stuck cat down for some little old lady in middle America.  “He’s not in his right mind,” Dean argued.  “He’s not even really talking.  He couldn’t say ‘yes’ and mean it.”

“Gabriel has never been entirely agreeable to following all of the rules,” Castiel pointed out.  “But if he did utilize Sam as a vessel, it won’t be for very long- Sam’s body wouldn’t last, and Gabriel can create one of his own as he did before.  His time as a pagan god has given him that much, at least.”

“Goddamnit,” Dean muttered, and stole the bottle of bourbon from Bobby.  “So, what, we just sit here and wait for your dickhead of a brother to stop riding around in mine and give him back?”

“You know, it sounds pretty icky when you say it that way.”

Dean almost fell off his chair.

“I prefer ‘seeing through his eyes,’ that’s much more romantic,” Gabriel offered, his words a little garbled through the sucker in his mouth.  His chin was propped on one arm, which rested on the knee he had raised up with his foot planted on the chair he sprawled in across from Dean.

“You look the same,” Dean said.

Gabriel winked.  “Why mess with perfection, eh Dean-o?”

“I was gonna say you’re still short,” Dean said flatly.  “You don’t look like Sam.  Where the hell is Sam?”

“Cool your jets, big guy, baby bro’s just fine.”  Gabriel held his hands out in surrender and rolled his eyes.  “Honestly, you boys.  Your Heaven is gonna be one big long moment of you two clutching each other tight and promising never to let go, isn’t it?”

Dean spluttered in disgust and protest, but Bobby beat him to it.  “So, you wanna explain why you’ve been hiding out in my house without asking?  ‘Cos this ain’t an angel sanctuary, and anybody who’s a guest here brings beer.”

Castiel turned sharply to him with a few tiny twitches of his eyebrows that seemed to suggest he was shocked and horrified at his oversight and why on earth hadn’t anyone told him how appallingly awful a guest he’d been and where was this list of ‘guest rules’ anyway?

“Not you, Cas,” Dean told him.

Castiel relaxed.

Gabriel grinned and saluted Dean with his sucker.  “I see your Big Ga-“

“SAM,” Dean barked.

“Is just fine, honestly,” Gabriel huffed.  “He spent a whole hour sleeping it off.  Post-bevesselment headache, y’know?  Now, the bigger question is-“

Gabriel leaned forward, and Dean couldn’t help mimicking him because oh, God.  He was gonna say there was a new ugly on the block, or maybe Lucifer wasn’t as squared away as they’d thought, or it was gonna be some kind of stupid quest to get Sammy back, or Heaven’s most annoying angel had been resurrected for the sole purpose of driving him insane for the rest of his life-

“I dunno why everyone seems to think Sam’s the girl when you’re the one shrieking away like a high school cheerleader,” Gabriel said uncomfortably, rubbing the side of his head, and Dean remembered very suddenly that this angel could read minds.  He very loudly and deliberately started thinking every insult and swearword he knew.  Gabriel rolled his eyes.  “Cute.  Anyway, the big question- can you make some more sugar cream pie?  Because that was awesome.  I made Sam go back, like, four times to steal me slices of that.”

“Where were you, exactly?”  Bobby asked.  “How much of my house am I gonna have to disinfect and ward against any more angels?”

Gabriel shrugged.  “I wasn’t actually here, most of the time,” he said.  “Not in an expressible third-dimension presence, anyway.  Cassie can explain all the science-y stuff to you later.  All I know is I was dead, I woke up, my vessel was gone, and my Grace was down to almost nothing, way too drained to make a new one.  But I could feel Gigantor’s soul screaming out louder than pretty much anything else in the world, so I went to him.”  Gabriel shivered, and met Dean’s eyes with the first sober look he’d worn yet.  “I don’t ever want to feel anything like that again,” he told Dean seriously.  “Your brother- man, I didn’t know a soul could go through that much torture and still try to keep going.  His brain couldn’t keep up with it all and tried to pretend he was back before he even knew monsters were even real, but his soul was a million torn and bleeding little pieces held together by flayed fragments of burnt skin, all screaming out for his brother.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and his hands clenched into fists.  He’d known it was bad, obviously it was bad- Cas _said_ it was bad, like his soul had been skinned alive- but hearing it like this, hearing that Sammy had just been trapped in pain and crying out for him all this time….

“I helped him, of course,” Gabriel added, perking up into something more like his usual irritatingly smarmy self.  “I mean, I wasn’t just going to leech off him and bail.  And let me tell you, that was hard work.  So, you know.  Gratitude pies wouldn’t go amiss here.”  He waited, but didn’t get a response.  “No?  You really are ungrateful, y’know?  Anyway, I basically sunk my claws into Sammy-boy’s back and rode along for a few weeks, soaking up the little bit of Grace he had left over in him from Lucifer and smoothing out some of the rough edges in his soul.  He figured out after a few days what was going on, and he agreed to let me stick around, so.”  Gabriel waved a hand at himself.  “I jumpstarted my Grace off what was left of Lucifer’s, and some strength off Sammy’s own soul, then built him back up again.  Possessed him so I could do the ritual to make myself a vessel, which was exhausting by the way, popped in here expecting to be showered in pies and thanks, but nooo,” he sneered.

“You may utilize my Grace however you need in order to return to full strength,” Castiel offered.

“No, he can’t,” Dean snapped, at the same time as Gabriel beamed and said, “Thanks, Cassie!”

“No Grace-stealing,” Dean insisted.  “Just tell me where you stashed my brother and go away.”  From the corner of his eye he could’ve sworn he saw Castiel mouth ‘ _later’_ at the archangel.

“I keep telling you, he’s _fine_ ,” Gabriel groaned.  “He wanted to do some shopping so I left him in town.”

“You _what_?” Dean didn’t yelp.  He said it in a loud noise, but it definitely wasn’t a yelp.  Or a shriek.  He’d swear to it.

“Balls,” Bobby added in a suitably manly gruff curse.

“He’s-“ Gabriel started, but Dean cut him off.

“Don’t you dare say ‘fine,’” he snapped.  “Sam is so, so not fine.  I can’t believe you left him on his own!  Last time he wandered into town by himself he got picked up by crazy psychos who wanted to rape him!”

Gabriel nodded thoughtfully.  “He does have that surprising ‘molest me’ vibe, doesn’t he?” he agreed.  “Maybe I shouldn’t have let him go shopping alone after all….”

“No!” Dean squawked.  He looked to Bobby and Cas for help, or maybe a declaration that anyone who so much as _thought_ about molesting Sam would have to go through the three of them first, but Bobby was apparently determined to drain the bottle of bourbon in one gulp, and Cas just looked confused.

Dean’s cell phone rang.

He frowned and pulled it out of his pocket.  The only person who had his number and wasn’t sitting next to him was Sam, but Sam wasn’t talking, and Dean was pretty sure he didn’t remember how to use a phone.  The number was local, but he didn’t recognize it, and when he angled the phone to show Bobby, the older hunter just shrugged.  He clicked a key to answer and put the phone to his ear.  “Hello?”

“Hey, is this Dean?  I’m calling about Sam.”

Dean knew his mouth was open wide enough to catch flies.  A strangled noise wrenched from his throat.  “Sam?”

“Yeah, Sam.”

Sam’s voice was a little rough, but he hadn’t really talked in a while, and it was warm and normal and _happy_.  Gabriel quirked a smile at him.

“Told you,” the archangel said.  “Seriously, he’s fine.  Archangel juice is strong stuff, even on the kind of damage his soul had.  My Grace growing around him when I was leeching helped scar everything over and smooth it all down.  Taking him as a vessel for a little while just pieced it all together.  He’s not totally good, but he’s fine.”

“I know the collar says you gotta kill me now,” Sam continued with suppressed laughter in his voice, “but he wanted me to pass a message on first.  See, Sam figures the collar thing’s a nice idea, and all, but red’s not really his color.  He sees himself more as a heathered lavender kinda guy.”

“Always knew you were a girl,” Dean choked out.

“Yeah, well, then, your little sis wants to know if the two of you can meet up at that pet store over on the east side of town.  The one next to the coffee shop.   You know, so you can buy her a girly drink with whipped cream and sprinkles after you get that new collar.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Dean said automatically.  The line clicked and Sam was gone.

“You two good again?” Bobby asked gruffly, but his eyes were soft and Dean knew their friend was just as shocked and disbelievingly relieved as he was.

“Yeah,” he said slowly.  “Yeah, we’re good.  Gonna go get him a new collar, though- bitch wants a different color and I’m not lettin’ him take it off so long as he lives.”  A grin spread unchecked across his face as he stood and grabbed his coat, clapping Castiel on the shoulder.  “You comin’ or you wanna wait here, Cas?”

“I should leave,” Cas said, that near-invisible crinkle at the corner of his eyes saying _I am just so fucking happy right now._ “But I will try to be back this evening to see Sam.”

Dean patted his back, nodded at Bobby and swung his coat over his shoulders.  “We’ll be back soon.”

“Hey!”  Gabriel’s voice followed him as he strode out the door, car keys in hand and feeling light on his feet for the first time in forever.  “Where’s my pie?”


End file.
